


Moon Drunk

by Demus



Series: He Walks in Wildness [1]
Category: Rhett & Link
Genre: Camping, Interspecies, Light Angst, Love, M/M, Sex, Teenagers, Tent Sex, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-08 00:27:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5476217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demus/pseuds/Demus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Keeping warm on a camping trip with your best friend is made marginally easier when he's a werewolf, even if he is the most annoying werewolf in the history of the world.</p><p>Even if the wilderness calls to the moon in his blood like a siren song.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this started as a weird dream in which werewolf!Rhett took human!Link to a bizarre werewolf summer camp and shagged him up against a tree in a fit of jealous rage because Link is too pretty to be allowed near other horny young werewolves.
> 
> I may yet write that fic... but in the mean time, inspired by that half-told camping story on GMM, there's this! And there will be a steamy epilogue when I've finished writing it, so stay tuned for that.

It is definitely, _definitely_ too cold to be camping. Link tugs at the drawstring on his sleeping bag, narrowing tiny gap even farther, trying to curl in on himself. He's probably wearing every item of clothing that he brought with him, plus a few of Rhett's, but night has well and truly closed around them and fall seems to have taken some of winter's cruelty to use for itself, judging by the numbness in his fingers, his face. Oh he hates the cold, he _hates_ it, how did he ever let himself get talked into-

A wet nose interrupts his thoughts. He yelps, thrashing out, and the nose retreats with a huff of protest. Link inches the hole open a little and finds himself rewarded by a faceful of moist doggy breath; he recoils, dodging the inevitable assault of an equally-moist tongue, and groans as clumsy paws trample him in the creature's haste to lick. Restricted by the sleeping bag, he can only flail ineffectually.

“Rhett! For the love of- Stop it, stop it, just- Just back off!”

He manages to get one arm free of his coverings to bat at his enthusiastic friend, but it backfires somewhat when Rhett grabs his sleeve and tugs, growling playfully. He is dragged halfway out of the sleeping bag before he knows it, shivering as he plunges into icy air, and the delighted yip that results does nothing to calm his frustration. “Damn it, Rhett!”

Despite the silvery brightness of the moon outside, it's too dark in the tent to see exactly what his friend is doing. Link's sleeve is released and just as he pulls his arm back, two paws connect with his chest with bruising force, slamming him to the ground atop his bedroll. He gasps, winded, and his friend takes advantage of his shock to clamber up, his whole body quivering with excitement, and hunker down to cover him, tail wagging furiously.

The moon is full and Rhett McLaughlin is the most annoying werewolf who has ever existed.

Link sighs. He reaches up to switch on his headlamp (experience has taught him never to be without one when there's a wolf on the prowl) and the dim light reveals familiar green eyes set wide over a powerful, blunt-nosed snout. Just like his human self, Rhett in wolf form is almost comically large, huge and rangy like an Irish wolfhound but with a rich golden-brindle coat as shaggy as a Malamute. Rhett is panting, lips pulled back over his nightmarish teeth in a doggy smile, and he leans down to snuffle at Link's face, his neck. He resettles his paws (too big for his legs, they look like bear paws, and the scariest thought is that the wolf might _still_ be growing into them) and wriggles closer still.

“I am never doing this again.”

Rhett's tail wags even harder. Link sighs; it's hard to know just how much he understands when he's like this. He doesn't behave like either a wolf or a dog, or a human, but there's something wolfish and doggish and, well _Rhettish_ about him. It's something they don't talk about; Rhett is Rhett, even if sometimes he runs on four legs and might, if unsupervised, come back from a night in the woods with a half-eaten rabbit and looking incredibly pleased with himself. 

He still knows how to push all of Link's buttons, that's for sure. The nose nudges again. Link buries his hands in the thicker ruff of fur at Rhett's neck to scratch, knowing the futility of trying to ignore his demands. “It's lucky for you that you're so fuzzy,” he adds, grudgingly. Rhett is warmer than any sleeping bag. 

Unfortunately, he's also a damn sight heavier. Normally, Link can pretty much fend him off but they've been out in the woods for two days already and his body is a limp and weary thing. The impromptu camping trip was inspired, as ever, by the onset of the full moon and Rhett's restlessness. When they were younger, Rhett seemed content to stay home, play at wilderness exploration in the safety of their backyards, but his wanderlust has grown up with him. They now spend their summers roaming the mountains, the rivers, mapping an increasing expanse of territory. As the moon waxes Rhett is driven to further and further exploration, on two feet or on four, and what can Link do but follow in his pawprints?

It's how they've spent the past two days. Link is exhausted, wrung-out, but Rhett never seems to tire. All he need is the odd nap, dozing in weak fall sunlight whilst Link cooks his dinner over a portable stove or sets up the tent. The wolf does take off on his own here and there, rushing into the undergrowth in pursuit of some unknown quarry before Link can stop him, but he never stays away long enough for Link to catch some decent shut-eye. Luckily, this late in the season there are few hapless tourists for Rhett to encounter. There have been one or two close calls, but Rhett has been savvy enough to run back to Link and play at being the big dopey mutt until suspicions are laid to rest.

He hasn't been human once.

A paw digs at Link's chest, catching his attention, and he realises that he's stopped stroking as his mind has wandered. The wolf rumbles his dissatisfaction and Link returns to the task at hand. “Dude, you are so demanding.”

The wolf's tail thumps against his leg. He's not going to be able to feel it for much longer; Rhett really is far too big for this, he's slowly cutting off the circulation to every one of Link's extremities. “Seriously,” he says, moving his hands up to scratch behind Rhett's ears, trying to ignore how his stomach twists when his friend lets out a happy noise, “can you imagine how this is going to look at college? 'Oh hey, no, don't mind me, I'm just rubbing my roommate's belly, it's no big deal!' You'll have to go to a petting zoo or something.”

All of a sudden, in a mad scramble of limbs, the wolf sits bolt upright. Link freezes. For a moment, he can't imagine what's happened, even opens his mouth to apologise for his last remark, then he notices in the dim glow of the headlamp that Rhett's ears are pricked forwards. He blinks, confused, then he hears it; a distant howl.

Fear grips him, vice-tight.

Every so often, every six months or so, this happens. Every time Link thinks they'll never come back, there is another voice on the wind, another Pied Piper, a high howl that calls _Come away, come away_. 

The existence of wandering werewolf packs isn't exactly a secret; they travel the countryside by night, invisible in the woodlands, and by daylight they roll into the towns in clothes borrowed from caches stocked by the locals' generosity, offering their unique talents in exchange for food, or whatever strikes their fancy. They are America's true nomads, the caravanserais of the modern age, never truly at rest, and they sweep young werewolves up in their wake as easily as leaves on the wind.

Rhett tilts his head, listening intently, as the solitary voice is joined by others in soaring, beckoning chorus. He whines. 

The noise galvanises Link into action. He struggles up, barely noticing the cold as he rolls clumsily onto his knees, but he moves too quickly and his head spins with the sudden motion. Unbalanced and still half-tangled in his sleeping bag, he begins to fall and just manages to catch himself on the wolf's muscled shoulders, sinking his hands into the thick pelt. Rhett growls. Link ignores him, ignores the gleam of his teeth, buries his face in golden fur and thinks _Please, please don't, don't go with them, stay with me_.

One day, it will happen. Werewolves aren't meant to be isolated. They might cope in human society for a while, sneaking off to Change, stealing away for a few hours to wear their wolf skin, but eventually they all answer the summons of a howl. One day when he hears the call, Rhett will lift his nose to the moon and let loose a sweet lupine harmony. One day, Rhett will turn away from Link, from his family, from his home, and run on four legs to his own wild kind. 

The knowledge roils in Link's stomach, clenches his hands tight in Rhett's fur as if he can hold him here with just that, with just the force of his own need. _Don't go_.

For a long moment, measured only by the _lub-dub_ of his heart beating, the wolf stays absolutely still, his massive body rigid with tension. The howl begins to fade, its enticement dying into silence, and only when the noise of the woodland creep back in does Rhett finally relax. Link feels the shift of his shoulder, the icy touch of his nose, then his friend stands and shakes out his coat, knocking Link back onto his ass. Rhett stalks over and sniffs pointedly at Link's stomach, his chest, pausing at his neck. He opens his mouth, and lowers his head to close his teeth over Link's throat, the wicked points of his teeth barely grazing his skin. Bright green eyes are fixed, lips pulling back, and Link stares, refusing to lower his gaze.

Rhett snarls. He bites down, _painpainpain_ for the briefest of seconds, then withdraws. 

Link's breath comes back to him in a rush, his heart hammering, and he feels his hands shaking as he lifts them to his neck, finds the indentations that Rhett has left in his skin. The wolf is watching him, inscrutable in the low light. 

It's not the first time Rhett has bitten him like this at full moon; hard enough to hurt, hard enough to mark, but nowhere near enough to break the skin. In the days that follow he has never mentioned it, not even once, but he always steps a little deeper into Link's shadow and Link knows his friend will be keeping a close, inexplicable watch on him until the next rising moon.

If only Rhett would tell him what it _means_. Try as he might, Link can't speak Wolf.

“You didn't even buy me a drink first,” Link manages to say, shakily. His voice sounds feeble, breathy, but apparently it is reassurance enough for Rhett, who steps close and nuzzles his hands where they rest on his neck, his tongue following seconds later, a sudden shock of heat in the chill of the night. Link squirms, trying to push him away, but Rhett merely settles down next to him, holding him in place with a casual leg on his chest. Only when he is satisfied that Link is drenched in slobber does Rhett relent and curl up around him, his head dropping heavy onto Link's chest.

Link doesn't dare move to scrub his friend's saliva away. The wolf sighs on top of him, his eyes drooping closed and Link reaches up to switch off his headlamp, resigned to being a doggy bed for yet another evening.

At least like this, he won't get cold.

At least like this, he can pretend Rhett will never leave.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, the steamy epilogue sort of turned into several hundred words' worth of melodramatic interspecies teenager smut. Sigh. I beg your indulgence! Teen!Link climbed inside my head and wouldn't leave until he got his fill of mooning (haha) after werewolf!Rhett.

Sunlight, muted by canvas, and the insistent touch of greedy hands. Link groans, wakefulness coming to him in fits and starts. He's lying on his left side, buried in cushion-y, slippery softness, and the warmth envelops him, caresses his back, locked tight around him like steel. He's tired deep in his muscles, deep in his bones, and so blissfully warm that he can't see any point in trying to move.

Maybe he should go back to sleep.

“Link,” Rhett growls, right next to his ear. 

It's the first thing Rhett has said in three days, so shocking that it startles Link fully awake with a mad flail of his hands. Judging by the arms at his waist and the leg that's insinuated itself between his thighs, Rhett's almost fully human. Perhaps he is a little hairier than usual and, judging by the scrape against Link's stomach, his fingertips are still clawed, his mouth still fanged. This close to the full moon there's something feral in him even when he's human, something altogether wolfish and bestial that should be terrifying. Link knows Rhett would never mean to hurt him, but claws leave marks and teeth dig deep and it would only take one moment of forgotten strength...

And apparently he's not paying Rhett enough attention. His friend growls again, the sound rumbling through his bare chest to Link's back, and his hand slides down to rub peremptorily at Link's crotch, sudden heat that makes Link's hips jerk entirely of their own accord.

“Rhett,” he says, about to chastise but Rhett continues to grope him, firm, knowing touches that are making him rapidly re-evaluate his priorities. 

One day, he'll wake to cold space beside him on the morning after the full moon. 

He gasps as teeth find his neck, drops his head back to expose his throat and feels Rhett surge into him in response; his friend's cock is hard, so hard, rutting up against his back. Rhett tugs at his clothes, evidently frustrated by the twelve million layers that have prevented him from catching hypothermia during the night, and he pauses his ministrations to pop the button on Link's jeans and shove his hand inside.

Link cries out, struggles against the invasion, but that only serves to push his dick into Rhett's insistent hold.

Goddamn werewolves and their insatiable full moon libidos.

“I'm- I'm s-still waiting f-for that d-drink,” he says, even as Rhett's fingers close around him and begin to stroke in earnest. 

“Too bad,” come the terse reply. Speech doesn't always come back to Rhett so quickly, nor does sarcasm; the wolf doesn't think in such complex terms. Rhett once described it as like coming up from underwater, hearing the meaningless gargle of speech overhead crystallizing suddenly into complete sense. Sometimes the wolf keeps him under a little longer. At least this time Link's getting a semblance of a reply. 

Rhett tightens his grip. Link _hears_ the noise he makes, like something out of a dirty movie, and gives up, dropping his hand to clasp Rhett's wrist and steer him a little. “S-some date th-this turned out to be.”

“Di'n't hump y'leg this time.”

 _That_ had been mortifying. “D-don't remind me.”

One day, he won't be enough to keep Rhett here. The thought springs unbidden to his mind, even as his friend huffs hot breath against the sting where his teeth sank into Link's skin. He won't ever be enough for Rhett, not really, not when wildness walks in his footsteps, not when the wind calls to him with a thousand pack voices.

Link's throat suddenly feels very full, his mouth desperately empty, and he squirms to roll over, ignoring Rhett's snarl of warning. Rhett snatches at him, catching his clothes as he wriggles his way out of them. He tugs the shirts and sweater over his head and is tossing them aside when a hand seizes him and tugs him back down; he hits the scattered bedding with enough force to knock the breath from his lungs. Rhett is on him instantly, kissing away the emptiness, clawed fingertips scoring lines of fire into Link's chest. Link traces out the points of Rhett's teeth, licks into his mouth as the werewolf rumbles his approval.

They are fumbling stupidly at each other, all thoughts of the cold forgotten. Rhett's chest still a little furred under Link's fingers, his shoulders swelling broader, the ridge of his spine sharp. His cock is heavy against Link's stomach, engorged, slippery with Rhett's need as they rub together. Link reaches down to take them both in hand, slick only with the sweat of his palm and their mingled pre-come, and gasps when Rhett's teeth close briefly on his tongue.

Rhett's kisses are dangerous, this close to the full moon.

Link squeezes, the barest hint of warning, and the werewolf relents, his tongue lapping in apology. “Easy, boy,” Link teases, his lips catching on Rhett's ensuring snarl, and grins at his friend's irritation. He softens his grip, just a little, continuing to stroke, the rhythm of their hips erratic and unsynchronised. His best friend is a monster from a fairy tale, real and throbbing in his hand, in his mouth, in the thunder of his pulse where their chests brush. His best friend is an ordinary teenager, awkward and ungainly, far too gangly and far too keen, throwing off Link's rhythm with every jerk of his hips. His best friend has hands that sometimes end in claws and patience that can wear perilously thin.

His best friend also seems to have forgotten that they didn't pack any lube for their camping trip.

Link yelps when a bold hand reaches down the back of his jeans, breaking their kiss, and he smacks Rhett's chest with his free hand.“Wait- Rhett, Rhett, I didn't bring-”

Rhett apparently doesn't want him to finish any sentences today. Before he can complete his protestation, hands close on his waist, pinning him. He is unceremoniously stripped of his pants, his shout of outrage seeming only to spur there werewolf on, then Rhett effortlessly hauls him up onto his knees, yanking his legs apart. Thoroughly disorientated, Link can only put up a token show of resistance; he finds no purchase on the untidy heap of bedding, his hands sliding out from under him when he tries to push himself up, and he lands jarringly on his forearms. 

There a growling rumble of approval from behind him, a bestial tone that triggers every prey instinct he possesses; he freezes, then rough fingers stroke over his ass, closing on his cheeks, spreading him open.

Link is abruptly aware of exactly how long it's been since he last had a shower. “No, hang on, don't-”

Heat silences him this time, shocking wet heat, Rhett's tongue and his panting breaths. Rhett licks him in eager strokes, digging his tongue into the groove of his perineum and upwards in long, sloppy licks. Link squirms, his breath caught in his throat, and Rhett's hands tighten their grip to hold him still. 

It's a little - well, a _lot_ \- overwhelming, this constant switch of gears. Rhett's wants are fierce and unforgiving, but the silent wolf is also the playful puppy is also the laughing teen is also the determined lover. Rhett is everything, Link's heart bulges sore with love for him, spills messy with love, love that paints him red with hunger, with need, love that gushes, sticky and thick. He never says it; he can't, he can't say it, love pools heavy and cloying in his awkward mouth, but sometimes the wildness in Rhett's eyes looks a little bit like the wildness in Link's heart.

Rhett's tongue breeches him. He moans, feels his body melt into liquid heat, tries to rock his hips back into sweet, soft pressure. He's stroking himself in time with Rhett's ministrations as the werewolf continues to lap, long strokes giving way to swifter ones, licking into him, licking him open, licking him _wet_. It's good, oh God it's so good, so tender, so thorough. Rhett seems to love this almost as much as Link, his hands twitching against Link's ass, little noises of pleasure rumbling against his most sensitive skin. The werewolf can't use his fingers for this, not when the moon is ripe in his blood and clawed in his hands, so it's all in the flick and push of his tongue.

Link grunts a protest when Rhett's mouth leaves him bereft, but his friend croons wordless comfort as he re-settles himself, the sound of shifting fabric betraying his movements. Link's cheek is pressed into his forearm and he opens his eyes, peering back as much as the angle will allow to see Rhett rearing up on his knees, hands squeezing Link's hips for balance as he shuffles forwards. He meets Link's gaze and his lips pull back from still-sharp teeth in a fierce grin. 

His right hand moves from Link's hip, stroking up to his back where it stops, claws moving in tiny, restless motions. He nudges forwards and the head of his cock nestles in, so hot, blunt and slipping a little in the wetness. Link wants to push back, to fill the void that Rhett's tongue left behind, but his friend has a wolf's forbearance when it comes to this. Link can only shudder in his grasp, his hand slowing over his own cock to match Rhett's pace and he bites back a moan as Rhett rocks into him, working his way inside with steady, torturous thrusts. 

Despite Rhett's care, there is a low, constant burn, a banked ache that smoulders inside; saliva is a crap lube and Link can feel every dearly-won inch. He wants to _move_. Damn it, he wants _Rhett_ to move. Rhett's the one who woke up drunk with the moon, he's the one who couldn't wait until they got back to the soft beds of civilisation. Rhett's the one who fucks him like he owns him, like Link's body is his for the taking whenever there's a pale orb high in the sky, like a promise that he's going to stay forever.

Promises, like pie crusts.

“Rhett,” he says, his mouth clumsy-full with words he cannot, will not, say. “Rhett, _please_.”

The werewolf's grip tightens and he bends low, one hand coming to rest beside Link's head, the other crossing over his chest to grasp his shoulder, holding him up, pressing him close, scoring his skin. His cheek nuzzles into Link's, a wolf's kiss. “Link,” Rhett says, growls, then he begins to thrust.

There is nothing elegant in it, nothing romantic; the close air of the tent is rapidly becoming stifling, sweat and heat and the rush of bodies writhing together. Rhett is heavy over him, his skin rough with hair, hard-edged and desperate with the rut; here is nothing between them, nothing but the flex of muscle, the shiver of sweat, halting breaths and the guttural, animal sound of sex. Lines blur, salt-sting, the ricochet of jolting, frantic thrusts.

Rhett bites when he comes, as if to hold Link in place, and the bright flare of pain startles a cry from his throat, Rhett's thrusts rapid and punishing, warm with the sudden, jerking slickness of come, driving Link into his own hand, pushing him over the edge.

They collapse together, sticky and panting, and Rhett hooks an arm around Link to drag him into an embrace. Link lets him, too wrung out to protest, the aftershocks of orgasm still shuddering and twitching through his blood. His friend mumbles something against his skin, then begins to lick the juncture of neck and shoulder, his tongue roughsoft, a little too much on Link's overstretched nerves. He protests, a wordless garble of sound, and Rhett subsides.

As he comes back to himself, bit by infinitesimal bit, Link realises he has Rhett's hand in his, their fingers interlaced. The werewolf's slowing breaths are warm against his neck, Rhett's nose nestled where his teeth had made themselves known. 

“You've got to stop doing that,” Link says, mustering just enough energy to stroke Rhett's thumb with his own. “I ain't a chew toy, man.”

Rhett shifts a little, causing his cock to move inside Link, momentarily stealing his breath. “You're the best chew toy.”

“Well, unless you want me runnin' after you wagging my tail and sniffin' butts every month, you better quit while you're ahead.”

Silence, then, “Would that be so bad?”

Link's heart clenches. He squirms, trying to wriggle out of Rhett's embrace, but the werewolf only tightens his grip. “We talked about this,” he says instead, trying to ignore the way Rhett's muscles tense around him. “Gotta have at least one set of opposable thumbs between us.”

The werewolf grumbles but he does relax, signalling that he is prepared to the drop the subject for now. They've come close before now, when they were both kids and it seemed to Link like the most awesome thing in the world to be able to change bodies and be just like his friend, but luckily young werewolves don't have the strength to force the Change in others, so the myriad of experimental bites did nothing but leave Link sore for a few days.

Rhett hasn't broken his skin since he turned sixteen.

Unnerved by the thought, Link lets go of Rhett's hand, having to tug a couple of times to get Rhett to do the same, and taps his arm. “Lemme up,” he says, tapping again when Rhett doesn't comply. “I'm starving, and I ain't eatin' till I've washed you off of me.”

With a sigh, Rhett lets him go, easing himself free of Link's body with palpable reluctance, his touches lingering. The full moon drives him wild, but it also makes him sweet, puppyish sweet and clingy once his urges have been satisfied, and he stays close to Link as they throw on some clothes and make their way down to creek, the conversation light and easy between them.

It's fall in the forest, the sunlight masks a moon that is waning gibbous, and, as Rhett pushes him into the water with a shout of laughter, Link thinks, not for the first time, that his best friend is probably the most annoying werewolf in the history of the world.


End file.
